


Two Promises

by JustJasper



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Demonic Possession, Demons, Dreams and Nightmares, M/M, Mistaken for Abuse, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-02
Updated: 2017-09-02
Packaged: 2018-12-23 01:43:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,452
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11979453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JustJasper/pseuds/JustJasper
Summary: After the Iron Bull becomes Tal-Vashoth, he starts dreaming. It complicates his budding 'thing' with Dorian, who tries his best to help. But when Dorian's help means dealing with demons, they could both be in over their heads.





	Two Promises

**Author's Note:**

> I was amazing to work with [Shae](http://shae-c-art.tumblr.com/) on this fic, her artworks are better than I could have hoped for! She also helped me title this bugger, so I'm endlessly grateful.
> 
> Thank you so much to [Lya](https://archiveofourown.org/users/gobetti) for beta reading - she is an absolute star.

**“Hold fast to dreams, for when dreams go, life is a barren field frozen with snow.” ― Langston Hughes**

The smell of the morning's bread is still hanging in the air, freshly laid hay in the stables, oil and leather. His boys are elsewhere, and the Bull heads for where Cassandra readies herself to train.

“This morning,” she says, “the corridors of Skyhold are full of gossip.”

“Yeah?”

“It would seem someone ought to keep their door locked.”

He laughs, and he thinks Cassandra watches the line of his throat. Not usually that interested, but the Seeker can look all she wants.

“Flowers,” says Cassandra. “You should get him flowers. It is romantic.”

The Bull has to laugh at that, the Seeker blushing from embarrassment or exertion as she wails on the training dummy and gives him romantic advice.

“That's what _you'd_ want,” he says.

“Do you suppose Dorian has ever been given flowers? Orchids, borage, zinnias.”

Cassandra is wearing white heather in her hair, plaited into her braid. She looks very pretty.

“The Bull isn't going to give him flowers,” Cullen chuckles, as he appears from – where? He's wearing flowers in his hair too. Oleander.

The back of the Bull's neck prickles, and he rolls his shoulders and swings his axe at the nearest training dummy.

“Bruises, maybe. A whole bouquet on his neck. Dorian touches them when we play chess.”

“Does he not deserve something softer?” Cassandra says. Cullen sneers.

“A half-done job. What did the Maker give you such hands for, if you can't even wrap them around that mage's neck?”

“Cullen,” he says, in warning. Cassandra doesn't pay any attention, still looking at the Bull.

“Do you think he knows he deserves flowers? Borage, for bravery, white zinnia for goodness, orchids – orange and pink – for virility.”

“You need only squeeze a little harder,” Cullen says. “If anyone were to ask, we could say all manner of things. Mages, without a leash, will always come to this.”

“ _Cullen_.”

“Has he ever been cared for before? Wanted, yes, admired, certainly, but loved? Enough to declare it?”

“Cass, not now—”

“He wouldn't even fight it. Right up to the moment he's gone, he would trust you.”

“Stop it!”

Cassandra speaks, but he doesn’t hear what she’s saying, and he's not in the courtyard anymore. It's Dorian's room, guttering candlelight and red carnations spread across his bed.

Cullen on the bed, then, and somehow the Bull is watching through his eyes; Dorian under him, amongst the carnations, blood bursting in the whites of his eyes.

“No,” the bull breathes, “no, _no!_ ”

The Bull wakes.

He's alone in his bed in the dark, the sheets caught around his legs and one arm slightly numb from lying on it.

Confused, at first – but gaining clarity in waking. He hasn't dreamed since Seheron, when he dreamed of drowning and longed for it. Re-education fixed him, and now, and now—

And now he's Tal-Vashoth, and he's dreaming. It's different this time; on Seheron the dreams were succour where he shouldn't have found any, cool water and peace when he was surrounded by burning jungle and death. He didn't dream of people, he didn't dream of flowers.

He wasn't Tal-Vashoth then, only broken, so maybe the beginnings are different – but it feels like madness all the same.

*

Solas notices he's not sleeping first, of course, but the Bull isn't about to talk to him about Fade crap. Cass next, then Varric, Vivienne. Shit, how long's it been? He can go days without sleep easily, and he did much longer in re-education, but also he didn't have to do anything else but stand in a dark room and piss himself back then. Eventually he knows it's getting stupid, but dreams give things a vivid, inescapable clarity. He's dreamed of Dorian again, seen Krem and his boys dead several times, watched old friends torn apart, memories even more vivid and terrible than plain old flashbacks.

Dorian's one of the last people to comment, though he might have been one of the first to notice. The Bull wants to think so, anyway.

“I'm going to assume there's an exciting reason your surgeon asked me to slip you this,” Dorian says, producing a small glass vial and waggling it at the Bull. Purple bottle, for sleep; Stitches has a system. Dorian sets it down on the Bull's bedside table, then begins to take off his rings and put them there too.

“I've had trouble sleeping,” the Bull says. Nothing he hasn't fed to anyone else who's asked.

“I liked when you tried to lean your elbow on the table in the Rest and missed,” Dorian says, beginning to unbuckle his leathers, “that was the best.”

The Bull huffs a laughs, reaches out to wrap his hands around Dorian's hips and pull him between his knees.

“And what are you planning? To wear me me out?”

“I was thinking that I'd befuddle you with my glorious mouth on your cock and see if I couldn't get a confession out of you about why you're being an idiot.”

The Bull hums, leans forward to kiss the exposed skin of Dorian's stomach. There's a moment here, a decision, because Dorian has no intention of pressing him, but having stated it as his intention, it now hangs between them.

“You know how Qunari don't dream?”

“Yes,” Dorian says, as Bull kisses his stomach again, then; “ah.”

“Yeah.”

“It's not a whole truth, then. It's propaganda.”

The Bull chuckles, rests his forehead against Dorian's middle. Dorian drops his hands to the Bull's shoulder, the back of his neck.

“Course it is. We're not _meant_ to dream. We learn not to.”

“How?”

“Kind of like meditation, breathing exercises. They teach us when we're tiny.”

“Have you dreamed before?”

“Yeah. But it wasn't like this.”

“How much do you remember?”

“I don't know.” Images, feelings, a sense of dread – the vision of Cass with flowers in her hair and Dorian choking amongst carnations.

“Most people forget their time in the Fade quickly. Some memories remain, particularly vivid dreams. Mages remember more, because their connection is so much stronger; who's to say how qunari experience it.”

A pause, heavy.

“Do you think you've met a demon?”

“I don't know,” he says again, feeling a little sick.

“I know you fear demons, but you've little need to be worried. Most non-mages go their entire lives without ever being possessed.”

“That doesn't make me feel better.”

“No, I imagine it wouldn't. But you have to sleep.”

The Bull groans – of course Dorian's right, but the thought of sleeping, of being in that place again, is worse than the bone-deep tiredness.

Dorian extracts himself gently from the Bull's hold, and sits on the bed beside him instead. He pulls one of the Bull's huge hands into his lap and strokes soothingly over the knuckles.

“Most demons aren't interested in possession, you know.”

The Bull snorts a disbelieving laugh.

“It's true. I am, as you're well aware, an incredibly powerful mage. I would be an absolute boon for a demon, and I've only encountered serious possession attempts perhaps three times in my life. Demons, and spirits, if you believe there's any difference, certainly like to interact with us when we're in the Fade. We humour them, or fascinate them, or perhaps just relieve them of boredom. But possession takes strength and wiles beyond many of them.”

It does make him feel a little better. As flippant as Dorian is about magic, something that runs in his blood, an intrinsic part of himself, he trusts him.

“People do get possessed, of course. And many people who get possessed are used to do terrible things. But I think it will only be unpleasant for you, not dangerous. Whatever you dream, it's not real.”

He nods. Dorian kisses his palm, turns his face into it.

“You really need to sleep, Bull. Would it help if I told you what I know of demons?”

“Maybe.” Probably not, but he likes listening to Dorian talk.

“Alright, where to start? A layman's guide to demons. For the most part, a demon must have your permission to possess you. Most demons will present themselves as what they are – many are simple opportunists. They will have an offer to make you, and if you decline, it's not in their interests to spend time convincing you – they'll just move on to someone else who's more inclined to agree. These will be easy to spot, they'll ask if you want their help. They might offer you strength, or power, or all the sex you could ever want.”

“Does that happen a lot?”

“It's not infrequent, for a mage. But it's not a true possession attempt; it’s more like a merchant hawking wares and hoping to entice you to barter.”

It sounds sinister and ridiculous, but the Bull knows he's never really had any education in demons like Dorian has, even if it's got a blasé Tevinter slant on the whole thing.

“They can coerce you to agree to terms, of course,” Dorian continues. “They might come to you in disguise, and this is where you must spot the deal in the manner they ask or offer it. Demons are bound to their nature more than a person is to their traits, so a demon who feeds on fear might show you the very worst things in the world, and promise respite from it if you agree to aid them. A desire demon may show you the greatest pleasure imaginable, and promise it to you if you let them possess you.”

“That sounds more like demons.”

“That's the classic method, if not actually the most common. But demons aren't as scary in the retelling when their exchanges amount to 'Want it? No? Okay'. What would the Templars use to instill fear in our hearts otherwise?”

“They're still dangerous, Dorian.”

“Of course they are. Every emotion, every fear, every desire is accessible in the Fade. They will shape your dreams to their ends if they want to convince you, or force you to agree to their terms. If you become a target for demons, you have to be strong willed. Your physical strength will mean nothing in the Fade – without magic, your mind is your weapon.”

The Bull laughs. “Would magic help?”

“Only at the very worse times, when hope is lost. But before that, it helps to ground you, knowing it's there. Demons are magical beings, and so is a mage, and it makes the field feel a little more level. Does this information help?”

“Yeah. Yeah, I think. Maybe I'll never meet a demon, if it's like you said.”

“You probably won't. Or perhaps you won't know it. If you're dreaming, then being in their realm is inevitable; losing sleep to the thought of it won't help you. Are you going to try the sleep draught? Stitches said it was weak – for you, at least – but would give you at least a good night's rest. Dreamless.”

The Bull takes the purple vial from the bedside table, careful not to knock Dorian's rings askew. He turns it in his large hand, considering.

*

Things get better. He doesn't take Stitches' brew, but his age-old exercises work again, most of the time. Sometimes he still dreams, and mostly it's weird. He tells Dorian what he remembers, and in turn Dorian tells him about his dreams – strange jaunts in the Fade that put his in perspective. Dorian doesn't meet any demons, he says. If it's a lie, the Bull appreciates it.

Much later than he begins to notice it, he acknowledges to himself that he doesn't dream when Dorian's in his bed. With him there, he slips into familiar dreamlessness, and wakes to Dorian beside him, against him.

A port in a storm, Krem had said, without judgement. Maybe he's right, even if it makes the Bull ache to think of it like that. Dorian offers himself as safe harbour without saying it; do you want to share a drink tonight? Perhaps you'll join me? Don't let me go to bed alone and bored tonight...

So most nights they drink and talk, share stories and laugh outrageously. On many nights like tonight, they fuck.

Dorian sitting astride his thighs, their cocks lined up and oiled – not too much, because they like the friction. Both of Dorian's hands wrapped around them, the Bull's hands roaming; across his thighs, his ass, the soft hairs on his forearms, his flexing biceps.

“We racing?”

Dorian laughs. “If you like.”

“First wins or first loses? Gotta figure if it's an advantage or a hindrance, me getting to look at you.”

“Always an advantage.”

The Bull does come first, because Dorian starts to shiver as he gets close and it's fucking breathtaking, watching him fighting it, wanting to make it last; showmanship, even here. He uses a palm full of the Bull's come to stroke them until he's done too, panting open-mouthed as he comes over the Bull's stomach.

Later, when his breath is back and his body is sated, and Dorian is halfway across the room fetching a damp cloth, he says:

“I wonder, have you had a sex dream yet?”

“That common?”

Dorian shrugs as he comes back to bed, short hair beautifully dishevelled in a way that makes the Bull feel sort of proud.

“Sex is often a significant desire, it's unsurprising it manifests in dreams too.”

“I'm trying to avoid sex with demons, as a rule.”

Dorian laughs. “It's seldom demons! The dreams our minds create aren't dependant on spirits or demons. Though most people wouldn't know, anyway.”

He doesn't ask, _have you had sex with a demon?_ He's not sure he could handle an answer.

“I only wondered. I thought perhaps a pleasant dream would make the whole concept less troubling to you.”

“Instead of making it weirder, you mean? Under the Qun it's forbidden to enter the Fade.”

“The only thing you're under these days is me, when I'm on top,” Dorian says as he climbs back into bed with the Bull and settles himself wrapped around his side. “And while I'm not going to encourage your reluctant trips to the Fade, I'm not forbidding it either.”

Not that it matters. He doesn’t dream when Dorian's sleeping next to him, curled against his blind side.

He kisses the top of Dorian's head and closes his eye.

When he wakes in the morning, Dorian is already awake, resting on his chest, his long hair flowing around his face, gold glinting at his nose and eyebrow.

“Good morning,” the Bull says, reaches out to tuck a strand of dark hair behind Dorian's ear. Dorian smiles, lowers his mouth to the Bull's chest and begins to kiss his way down. “Like that this morning?”

The Bull laughs, settles into it. Dorian's not a morning person, but sometimes he's full of surprises.

When Dorian takes the Bull's cock into his mouth he groans and slips his fingers through Dorian's long hair. He's so good at this, so eager, enjoying taking the Bull apart. The Bull sinks further into the pillows, cradles the back of Dorian's head.

“Shit, I need to wake you up like this sometime.”

Dorian doesn't react, just keeps sucking his cock.

“Dorian, hey,” he says, as he reaches out and tilts Dorian’s chin up, “you okay down there?”

It's not Dorian. He knows it with a sudden clarity, that whatever this is, as beautiful and sultry this thing is, it isn't Dorian.

As soon as he knows, it doesn't even look like Dorian anymore, not really. Before his eyes, the thing wears Dorian's face but is too exquisite, too symmetrical, smooth, uncanny.

“Get off,” he growls, pulling it from his cock with an obscene pop. It reaches for him, still using Dorian's face, and he grabs its wrist before the hand can touch his face.

A surge then, sudden power like the earth destabilizing, as it tries to reach for him again. Its long black hair flows around Dorian's face, and up – not hair, but horns. Its skin is perfect, smooth and brown like Dorian's, clouded to bruised purple as the Bull tries to find the will to move. Those are almost Dorian's eyes; deep, deep grey, lips dark, teeth and tongue sharp.

“Bull,” it says, with Dorian's voice and with others all at once, “Bull, what's wrong?” Claws at the end of fine-boned fingers, arms dripping in gold bangles.

“ _NO!_ ”

He squeezes the thing's wrist and it screeches an unworldly sound, face contorting horribly, twisting into a sharp-toothed snarl. It won't stop, and the Bull twists its wrist until it begins to scream again—

And then he's awake, gasping for breath in the dark of his room.

A dream. A fucking _dream_. The sheets are all tangled up, the pillows askew.

Dorian’s awake too, and the Bull can make out the shape of him sitting on the edge of the bed as his eye adjusts to the dark.

“Hey,” he says. His heart is still beating too fast from the dream, unease still gripping him. “I wake you up?”

“I think-” Dorian’s voice is strained. Here, usually Dorian would light a fire in the banked hearth with magic, or provide a little magical light to see by. He doesn’t, only sits in the dark, breath hitching slightly when the Bull climbs out of bed and feels his way around the nightstand to light a candle, sending a few of Dorian's rings clattering to the stone floor.

“What’s wrong?”

“I’m fine,” Dorian says, not moving. He’s hunched slightly in the guttering candlelight, and the Bull wonders if the way everything looks in half-light and dread means he’s still dreaming.

The candlelight slowly reveals the terrible reality; Dorian’s arm cradled to his chest, his wrist caught in dramatic shadow, broken.

“Dorian, _shit—_ ”

He reaches out without thought, and his traitor brain still has the gall to feel shocked when Dorian flinches. He groans in pain, eyes squeezed shut.

“I need to see a healer.”

“Yeah,” The Bull nods.

Did Dorian scream, or was that only the dream? How long did he have Dorian’s wrist in his hand? How far did he have to twist to break it?

“Find me some trousers, then.”

He kneels to help Dorian into his leggings, and as he does the laces - a sickeningly intimate thing, after what he’s done – Dorian reaches his good hand down to grip his shoulder.

“You were dreaming?”

“Yeah.”

The Bull expects Dorian to be confirming something he expects, to have thought it was a dream.

“Okay,” he says, as if to reassure himself. The Bull wants to be sick.

They make their way out onto the battlements, a blanket loosely wrapped across Dorian’s shoulders and over his arms to hide him from onlookers. It’s quiet at this time in the early hours, just guards and early rising workers who don’t pay them much attention.

Dorian's breath is shallow as each step clearly jostles his arm, causing him pain.

The parts of Skyhold that have been designated the hospital are quiet at this time too, a single healer greeting them on the makeshift ward.

Dorian’s wrist looks so much worse in the light; deformed by a bone pressing out at an angle it shouldn’t, angry dark red patches along the wrist and across the thumb where blood blossoms under the skin.

The healer takes one look at the state of Dorian’s arm, then to the Bull, as clear to her as it is to him that Dorian’s wrist has been twisted to break.

“Out,” she says.

Dorian swears under his breath, goes stiff with pain. The healer is still glaring at the Bull. He knows what she’s thinking; how often does she see injuries that are 'accidents' just like this? He knows how it looks. He knows what he'd assume if he saw it. He shakes his head.

“Dorian—”

“Go before I call the guard on you!”

Dorian doesn't say anything, only sways on the spot.

“Alright, I'll go.”

The healer ushers Dorian deeper into the clinic as the Bull leaves back into the keep. He stands outside the door for a moment. What now? He lets his feet carry him.

Sometimes people think Qunari are dangerous, and sometimes he gets looks. A girl in a bar might have an uncle or brother who doesn't take kindly to the Bull's attention; an unfamiliar crowd might stare as he leaves someone's rooms minutes after they've heard a lot of shouting and squeaking of bedframes. He knows what Tal-Vashoth do, and he knows what people thought when he was playing Tal-Vashoth. He's usually been too big to actually catch any trouble for it, and it usually hasn't mattered.

Skyhold isn't different, except for having his boys there. With them, and the other people who know him and like him, the opinions of random soldiers or Sisters doesn't really matter. The people who matter know he wouldn't – and soon they'll know he _did_.

When he gets back to his room the cold dawn is breaking, and he lights the fire to warm the place. Dorian's undershirt and leathers are still over the back of a chair, the sheets still a tangled mess. He picks up Dorian's rings that he scattered over the floor fumbling in the dark and sits on the side of the bed with them in his palm.

Dorian's gonna be left to try and explain to the healer what happened. It'll sound like an excuse – _he didn't mean it_ – and what will she think of Dorian? Will she pity him? Maybe he should have stayed and faced her anger so Dorian didn't have to face her questions.

But Dorian's silence when the healer told him twon’t leave his mind; the same heavy, unsure pause after he asked if it was a dream.

He traces the circles of Dorian's gold rings, and wonders.

*

Cadash would rather be in the Rest with them, amongst the troops and with her team, so her room has a severity to it. It's got no intimacy, at least not for him – maybe it's different for Josephine, but he's only ever been to visit her here on business.

“You wanted to see me, Boss?”

She's standing at the window, letting a cold mountain breeze into the room.

“I’ve seen Dorian.”

Should have known she’d hear about it sooner rather than later. He crosses the room to stand with her, trying to place her expression. Not angry, not upset; pensive, maybe. Tired.

“You broke his wrist, both bones cleanly. His thumb, you dislocated and broke that. Fingers too, you cracked a few of those. We've got some really good healers here, magical or not. They're confident if it heals properly he'll be alright. I'm not telling you this information for you to use it to beat yourself up with, but I thought you'd want to know.”

He nods dumbly.

“The healer wants your head.”

“She thinks—” The Bull swallows, feeling suddenly sick.

“I know what she thinks. I know it can’t possibly be like she’s thinking. Tell me it isn’t.”

“It was an accident.”

She exhales through her nose, considering.

“A game?”

“No, I was asleep. I was dreaming.”

“You don’t dream.”

“Not usually. But lately I have.”

She laughs humourlessly, turning back to look out the window, across the Frostbacks.

“You get used to it.”

She's a good woman, but how could she possibly know that, being a dwarf? As if she knows what he's thinking, she raises her hand shot-through with sickly green.

“Ever since the mark I've dreamed.”

“Shit.”

A little affirmative sound, and sympathy on her face.

“It does get easier.”

“No offence Boss, but I haven't heard anything about you breaking Josephine's arm in your sleep.”

She doesn't react, only watches him.

“He's not angry.”

“He should be.”

“Why?”

“I broke his fucking wrist.”

“By _accident_. You can't tell me you've never laid a blow on one of your men and they've come off worse for it.”

“That isn't the same. That's in training, that's somewhere they know they might get bumped about. We were in bed, he should be safe there. I dreamed of him, and then it wasn't him – I don't know if it was just a dream, or a demon, but if I'd grabbed it by the neck, I would have choked the life outta Dorian.”

The image of Dorian choking amongst red carnations, blood burst in his eyes. Dorian cradling his broken wrist to his chest.

“But you didn't do that.”

“I will. I could. I'm Tal-Vashoth now.”

“That doesn't mean you're going to hurt him.”

“You haven't seen what we become without the Qun.”

“You know that's bullshit, that Qunari go mad. It's not true.”

“Maybe it isn't for everyone, maybe not even for most, but I fought Tal-Vashoth on Seheron. I saw them _butcher_ people, I saw them tear people apart, set traps to maim them. Just as bad as the Vints. I almost lost my way once, and now—”

“You chose another path.”

“You chose it for me. You made me, and now you've got no way to fix me.”

She laughs now, the flare of temper at last.

“No, _you_ chose. You chose your loyalties months ago. You didn't trust that alliance any more than I did, and you didn't have to blow that horn – which you did almost before I'd finished telling you to. If the Qun was where you wanted to be, you'd have defied me. You chose the Inquisition long before that. You chose me, this place, this life, your men, you chose these people. Don't blame me for telling you what you already knew.”

“I've seen what Tal-Vashoth become. It's not bullshit.”

“You've seen what _some_ Tal-Vashoth become in a _warzone_. You're not the first I've met, I've met hundreds, and none of them were suffering from an inherent maddening. What you're going through isn't madness, it's maladjustment. You gave up the people you were born to, and the ties you had. It's not so strange that you're struggling.”

“I'm a risk. I could have killed Dorian.”

“Whether you trust yourself or not, I trust you. But if it helps to sleep alone until you're adjusted, do it. This is an upheaval, but you'll find your limits again. You're a good man. Bull.”

“You don't know me.”

“I know enough. I know you're a good man, and not a monster. I know that you'll find a way through this. When you can't? That's what we're here for. We've got your back.”

*

The great hall is deserted at this hour, his footfalls ringing out in the silence. The castle is quiet, caught in the lull between last call at the Herald's Rest and when the bakers and cooks will rise before the sun to begin their day.

The ornate throne, wood and metal, stands solitary at the head of the room, foreboding in the shadow. It's a powerful image, whether Cadash mean it to be or not.

He turns at the sound of a door opening, and watches Dorian slip into the empty hall. He reaches him smiling, eyes glinting in the near dark.

“Hey,” he says gently. Dorian tilts his head.

“Bull, just so you know, you're dreaming.”

“What?”

“You're dreaming. This is a dream. Take a moment.”

The quiet is too quiet – even in this dead time there's the sound of wind, the scurry of a rat, the sound of the ravens in the rookery. Why did he come here? He can't remember.

He's dreaming.

“What are you, then?”

“I'm Dorian.”

“Yeah, okay.” The Bull casts around quickly for an exit, but he's at a loss for how he could escape a dream.

“No, it's probably better than you don't believe me. I won't come near you, I won't touch you. When you wake up come find me, and I’ll tell you it was really me.”

So, what did Dorian tell him about demons? They might try to trick him. Maybe if he's careful, he can see how good its attempts at tricking him are.

“How are you here?”

“We're all in the Fade when we dream, and sometimes we encounter others. Strangers, mostly, and we mistake them for demons or spirits. Those people who have uncannily similar dreams may have met in the Fade. I came to find you.”

“How did you find me?”

“I’m dosed up to the eyeballs with lyrium. A mage has more control over the Fade, but not typically enough to get this adventurous, visiting other people on purpose.”

“Why are you here, then?”

“Well, I thought about it, and all things considered you might indeed be more at risk for possession than I made out. You're unfamiliar in the Fade, and unfamiliar with how a demon would approach you.”

“Like this, I reckon.”

“Quite possibly. And you're right not to trust me here, I could well be a demon. But you remember what I taught you?”

“Yeah.”

“Then pay attention, make sure I don't trick you into letting me possess you. Not that I actually can, because I’m not a demon. But for practice's sake.”

Whatever this thing is, whether it's Dorian or not, the Bull doesn't trust it. But he trusts Dorian when he's awake, and he remembers what he told him.

The Fade changes slowly, like coming round from sleep itself. There's light, the sun warm on his back. Noise of music and throngs of crowds that come into being around them, sweet, strong smells in the air that are distantly familiar.

“Where are we?”

“I believe we're in Minrathous. I remember you said you'd been here.”

“Vivazzi Plaza?”

He recognises the dancers now, silks flowing and jewellery tinkling as they twist to the music. Groups of strangers chatter and laugh, and the two of them go unnoticed by whatever these figments are.

“This is one of my memories, not yours. Is it different to how you remember?”

“It'd rained the night before. It smelt fresh, the air was cool.”

“Oh, I love Minrathous after rain.”

Subtly, the world changes; the smell of rain on warm ground, a slight breeze amongst the milling crowd.

“Aren't the dancers wonderful?”

“They're something.”

“Relax, Bull. If you're going to dream, you're going to have to learn to let them happen. You can't survive being this wound up every night.”

“Easy for you to say.”

“I know it is. I can't imagine how strange it is to find yourself here, but you're in no immediate danger. Come on.”

Dorian – is it Dorian? – offers his hand to the Bull. He hesitates, squinting against the glare of the sun.

“A demon can't possess you just by touching you. Your body isn't even really here, remember?”

It was a secondary thought. The first is how brown Dorian's skin looks, how strong his hands, wrist unbroken. The same hand that's splinted and covered in ugly bruising in the waking world.

He puts his hand gentle into Dorian's, and lets him lead him into the crowd towards the dancers. Dorian laughs and pulls him through the crowds. Maybe it'll be okay, and maybe it really is Dorian. He's dressed loosely in blue, maybe the fashion from his memory of this place. His hair is the same as the Bull knows it, and bangles jangle at his wrists.

“The control you have over your dreams varies,” Dorian tells him. “You'll have less control without magic, but sometimes things are very malleable. Your thoughts are powerful, and you can project them here. What were the dancers wearing when you visited?”

“Silver. It was new year.”

“Picture it,” Dorian says, as he gestures to the twirling dancers, draped in gold jewellery and sheer blue fabric like Dorian, winding silk scarves around themselves. “Imagine it.”

Almost immediately, seamlessly, the dancers are wearing silver and black.

“To be incredibly twee, dreams are where your imagination can free itself. Constant fear is useless, you only have to have your wits about you.”

One of the dancers is familiar, a woman with brown skin and red hair flying about her face as she moves. He remembers her from when he was really here. He remembers going to bed with her when the rain began again.

“Oh, she's beautiful,” Dorian says. “I take it you fucked her? Or killed her, I suppose, you never told me what you were doing in Tevinter.”

“Why would I kill a dancer?”

“I don't know, it's your memory. Was she an assassin?”

“I didn't kill her.”

“You fucked her, then. You could again, if you like. The wonder of dreams.”

“You're just going to stand there and watch while I fuck a demon, huh?”

“She's not a demon, Bull. Not everything you encounter that takes human form is anything – she's just a memory. A figment of your imagination, powered by the Fade.”

“So you're going to just stand by and watch while I fuck some woman I dreamed up?”

“You say it like I'd get the vapours at the mere sight of her vagina, Bull. Anyhow, I didn't mean _now_ , unless you're particularly interested in her. Just that you can, without fear. You'll still feel it, feel pleasure – pain too. It's not real, of course, you can come to no actual harm no matter what happens to your body.”

“And if I fuck someone in the Fade, how do I know it's not a demon?”

“Well, if they don't do anything demonic or offer you any terms, you might not know.”

“I'm going to pass.”

Dorian laughs. “Alright. Would you like to go try the food, then?”

“I can eat?”

“There are food stalls, it ought to taste like you remember the food to taste.”

The Bull shrugs. “I could eat.”

In the morning the Bull wakes up with the dawn, and wakes up hungry. He ignores his stomach and takes up Dorian's things, which have been sat neatly on the chair since the night he hurt him. It's too early for Dorian to be awake, but the Bull tries his luck anyway, knocking on the door to his quarters.

After a moment Dorian answers, hair askew and a blanket pulled around his shoulders.

“You better have an incredibly good reason for waking me at this Maker-forsaken hour. The morning bell hasn't even rung yet.”

“The morning bell rang hours ago.”

“Oh.”

“I bought your stuff back. I was going to bring it by yesterday, but Cadash said the healing took most of the day.”

“Yes,” Dorian says, considering him. “I'm under order to rest. Thank you.”

Dorian blinks sleepily, and suppresses a yawn. The Bull misses him already.

“This is going to sound weird, but did you visit me in a dream last night?”

Dorian laughs. “I did. Did you ever stop thinking I was a demon?”

“You got pretty convincing after we went to the food stalls.”

“I hope it helped. Dreams shouldn't be feared; for many of us, they're simply a part of our lives.”

“I'd still rather not dream at all,” the Bull says. “But thanks.”

The Bull passes Dorian's things over, and Dorian takes them one-handed; the blanket slips from his shoulder and reveals Dorian's arm in a sling, the fingers he can see bandaged, bruised black.

“I do intend to take it easy today, but I wouldn't complain about company.” He shifts feet, jostling his arm and wincing against the pain. The Bull feels his guilt spike acutely.

“I'm sorry. I'm so sorry, Dorian.”

Dorian nods. “I know you are. Come on.”

He turns, beckoning him into his room. The Bull knows he can't.

“I've got to get to my boys. We've slacked on the training.”

Dorian blinks, and nods.

“Oh. Alright. Find you for a drink later?”

“Maybe.” It's a kind lie. He can't. Not until he's not dreaming. Maybe not ever, if he stays a risk.

“Alright.”

“See you around, then,” the Bull says, turning to go.

“Oh, Bull–” Dorian says, before he can leave, not unkindly, “—if you meet me again in dreams, it's not me. It probably won't be a demon, just a dream, but I won't come to you again.”

That's probably for the best, but that doesn’t stop the Bull feeling disappointed.

*

Dorian hasn't been to the Herald's Rest in a few nights, and the Bull thinks that's maybe for the best. Saves him having to turn him down when the usual offer is on the table, to tell him he can't. The thought of waking up with his hands around Dorian's neck, blood bursting in his eyes – it follows him into waking. He's got to get his head together, and he's still dreaming, so that's not happening soon.

The dreams have improved, though. No more dreams of people dying, or of hurting anyone. Mostly they're like memories, but not quite like he knows they should be; as if the conversations he's lived through before go off-script, or there's something out of place. They're still dreams, which fundamentally unsettle him, but he'd be pushed to call them unpleasant. A few times he's seen Dorian in dreams; sitting in the Herald's rest, in the corner of his vision during a battle, leaning on the railing of the library. Pointless to try and talk to him there, since he's not real. Some figment of his mind, or a spirit playing dress up, and hopefully never a demon.

He sits in his usual spot and watches the tavern. Used to watch Dorian when he'd come in, before they were friendly – when they were still sizing each other up, and when Dorian used to try not to let his eyes wander too obviously to the Bull; curiosity and caution firstly, then heat later.

Other eyes wander, and that's not unusual. A few of the Chargers checking in, a few soldiers and merchants casting him glances. Some unfamiliar faces, not used to qunari, and a few regulars who know he's a sure thing for a good time.

Leanne brings him a drink he didn't ask for, pressing the tankard into his hand.

“From the boys at the bar.”

He catches their eyes – two soldiers, grinning and talking to each other. He raises his cup, and they raise theirs in turn. Interesting. Wouldn't be the first time he's bedded two at once because they had a mind to share him. He gets up and goes over to them.

“Thanks for the drink.”

“You earned it,” one says.

“Yeah,” the other one pipes up, “we just heard, and it's about time.”

“What exactly am I meant to have done?”

“The 'Vint.”

The Bull doesn't react, though he feels a muscle by his eye twitch – doesn't even let his friendly smile fall.

“About time someone took him down a peg.”

“What did he do, anyway? Did he try and jump you when you had your pants down?”

“Anyway, I hear he's been a lot more manageable since, stopped swanning around the keep like he owns the place.”

“Couldn't have gone for the face, though? Guess you probably couldn't get away with breaking his nose, that dumb Carta bitch seems too soft on the magister.”

They laugh uproariously.

“No, take out the hands first, first rule of dealing with mages, right?”

The Bull slams his tankard down on the bar top, sending beer flying as they squawk in surprise. He crosses the room in a few strides and flings the door open, rattles the hinges with the force.

“Chief!”

He knew Krem had been amongst his boys somewhere, makes sense he's follow him out, but the Bull isn't thinking sensibly, isn't thinking at all. He walks until he's out of sight of the tavern, until there aren't eyes on him – the stairs leading to the stables, the market place empty for the evening.

He comes to a stop, and then he throws his fist into the closest wall. Again and again he punches the wall as hard as he can, letting the pain bloom violently over his knuckles and through his wrist, until the thud of flesh on stone is wet.

Eventually he's wrenched from the wall by Krem grabbing his horns and pulling him sharply away.

“Chief, stop!”

He breathes. Blood drips from his knuckles onto his pant leg.

“Shit, Chief.” Krem looks stricken, brow knotted with worry. “What did they say to you?”

“Nothing.”

“Was it about Dorian?”

The Bull doesn't say anything, looks over Krem's shoulder back towards the tavern. Krem sighs.

“Come on, Stitches needs to look at that.”

He could argue, but instead he finds himself trailing behind him all the way to the Charger's barracks and into the healer's tent.

“What happened?” Stitches asks, spotting the Bull's bloody hand and grabbing it up. He pushes the Bull into a chair that creaks ominously and lifts his hand to inspect it. “What have you been doing?”

“Punching walls,” Krem says. He's standing by the door of the tent, a barrier between them and the rest of the camp.

Stitches makes a surprised noise. “That's not like you.”

He's bleeding sluggishly from some abrasions on his knuckles, which are full of grit from the wall. Sighing exasperatedly, Stitches gathers equipment for debridement.

“I guess everyone's heard what I did to Dorian by now,” the Bull says.

“Pretty much,” Krem says. The Bull laughs bitterly.

“Any of my boys want to buy me drinks for breaking his wrist?”

Krem's silent for too long as Stitches arranges the Bull's hand on a table and begins to pick out bits of stone from his flesh.

“Suppose they think he did something. You know, to a lot of them I'm the only 'vint they’ve ever met who didn't want to blood magic them. You're pretty sporting about killing 'vints. Self defence, Chief.”

“So, my men think I go around hurting the people I'm fucking?”

“It's not really like that,” Stitches says, not looking up from his work. “The healers talk. They've got into their heads that you're bad news, that this isn't the first or the last time. The Chargers know you're not cruel, so all they can figure is Dorian must have done something.”

“They think I've hurt people before?”

“Rumour mill shit. Only need one person who's funny about you framing something innocent in a convenient way for it to sound like there's more to it. From what I heard, Dorian said it was an accident.”

“They don't believe it.”

“Inquisitor must believe it, or you'd be locked up. We believe it too. But I can't really reassure the men without telling them you're having a hard time.”

“Hard with what?” Krem asks.

“I'm assuming it was a flashback or a dream or something,” Stitches continues. “Most people who get them get it worse when they're not sleeping well.”

“Bull doesn't dream.”

Stitches doesn't say anything, only keeps debrideing the Bull's hand.

“You bastard, Chief. Since when do qunari dream?”

The Bull sighs. “Since always, Cremépuff. We learn not to, then apparently as soon as we go Tal-Vashoth that craps out on us and we're stuck wandering the fucking Fade like the rest of you.”

“Shit.”

“I've got a tonic that'll stop you dreaming,” Stitches says, gesturing to a crate of purple bottles like the one Dorian brought to him weeks ago. “Not a good solution long term, though – dulls reflexes, makes you feel pretty awful, reacts badly with alcohol.”

“Who are they for?”

“Fiona wants a supply.”

The Bull doesn't want think about why the mages would need to stop dreaming.

“I'm fine.”

Krem huffs. “Punching walls is just something you do for fun, then? A new hobby?”

“Nah, I think I’ll take up sewing instead.”

“Your fingers are too big for it, Chief.”

Stitches keeps working, and Krem turns someone at the door away, telling them to return in a while.

“Just Coin, told her to come back. How's Dorian doing, anyway?”

“Don't know,” the Bull says. “Haven't really seen him.”

Stitches and Krem exchange a significant look.

“It's not happening. Can't happen, if I can't control myself. He's not even angry.”

“Should he be?” Stitches asks.

“Yeah. I would be.”

“This is why you're an idiot, Chief, because you know you wouldn't be. Don't know why you think he's got to stay mad at you if it was an accident, as if that's going to help his wrist heal.”

“What he doesn't understand, what you all don't seem to understand, is that I'm _dangerous_.”

Stitches hums. “Only as dangerous as Skinner with dagger.”

That shocks a laugh out of the Bull.

“Pretty lethal.”

“I mean that if you caught Skinner off guard and she shanked you, then that would just be a likely outcome. Skinner's not so lethal you can't be near her day to day, though, and neither are you. Once you've got this dreaming thing sorted, you'll be fine. Sleep alone until you've got the hang of it. Doesn't mean you have to avoid Pavus.”

“You'll probably make it worse if you keep avoiding him,” Krem says. “He's over it, you need to get over it too.”

*

Dorian doesn't fight at Adamant – the Inquisitor doesn't let him within a mile of the place. The Bull fights demons as the Inquisitor and Cassandra, Solas and Sera are shit knows where, inside a rift. He's sure they're dead, or _worse_ , and the fight costs them. The battle turns when the Inquisitor rips her way back into reality, her mark crackling, wreathed in green light from the rift – the rest of them tumble out after her, except the Warden. The demons go down pretty easy after that.

By the time things are over and they've made it back to the forward camp, the winds are whipping up a sandstorm and everyone is eager to escape it and collapse after a hard fought battle. They shuffle off to tents, and after the Bull's checked in with his boys that there wasn't any trouble towards the rear while Cullen's troops stormed Adamant, he chooses a larger tent that doesn't look occupied and heads towards it.

It is occupied of course, by Dorian. If the Bull didn't know from Krem that Dorian had been seen about the camp, he'd have sworn he followed and fought in the battle by the state of him – no wounds, but a tiredness that seems to weigh heavily on hunched shoulders.

“Hey.”

“Come in before you let the sand in, then.”

He hasn't seen him up close since he returned his things – he looks like shit. His fingers are bandaged and wrist is still splinted but not in a sling, the bruising has turned ugly purple, fading to sickly green-yellow in places. There are dark circles under his eyes, and stubble on his jaw.

“I heard that losses included Hawke's warden contact.”

“Yeah. Stayed behind so the rest could escape. You hear they were in the Fade?”

“I heard. I can't quite believe it. I'm sure Solas will be only too happy to tell me all about it when he's rested.”

The Bull settles, taking off his armour as Dorian watches him. There's no heat in his gaze, no real focus either – he just follow his motions, until he's staring straight through him.

“The dreams have been better,” the Bull says. Seems like Dorian should know that.

Dorian refocuses, and stares. Stares for a long time, while the Bull gets out of his boots and harness too.

“Good,” he says, eventually. Then after a loaded pause: “Good. They should be, considering all the effort I've—”

He rubs a hand over his face, and moves to look through his pack.

“The effort you've what?”

“It's nothing.”

“Dorian, what's going on?”

When Dorian laughs, it's soft and a bit hysterical. He's still rooting around in his pack.

“I thought it would help, if you could only have some good experiences. And the more I thought about your inexperience, the more I wondered about demons. But I needn't have – shouldn't have. If I'd just left you alone – but I didn't, and of course I attracted something to you. This is the stupidest thing I've done. Luckily – for _you_ , luckily, it's more interested in me now, since it caught me.”

“Dorian, what are you saying? What's caught you?”

“It's fine. I'm keeping it at bay.”

The Bull realises then that Dorian's got a vial in his hand – purple, one of Stitches'. He pops the cork off with his teeth and spits it out, releases a shuddering breath, and then drinks the potion down in one.

“Dorian!” The Bull reaches for him too late, as his slow brain makes the right links. His hand closes around air. “Dorian, how long have you been taking these?”

“I have to. I was stupid. So stupid.”

“Dorian, what's caught you?”

Dorian is falling asleep quickly under the effect of the potion. The vial slips from his hand into his lap, he sways forward unsteadily. The Bull takes his shoulders gently, holding him up. Dorian lifts his head, eyes barely open.

“It knows about me. How I'm frightened of you.”

He falls asleep upright, head lolling forward. The Bull puts him down in his bedroll and tucks him in, strokes his hair, some excuse to touch Dorian for as long as possible. He doesn't even snore like he usually does under the effects of the sleeping draught, only breathes steadily through his nose.

The Bull doesn't sleep despite his battle-weary bones, sits and watches Dorian sleep. If he'd listened to Krem and Stitches and stopped avoiding Dorian, he might have seen this earlier.

Dorian revelled in dreams, enjoyed them, and liked showing them to the Bull – what could be so terrifying in his dreams that he'd resort to drugging himself away from the Fade?

A demon, of course.

*

As soon as they return from the Western Approach the Inquisitor calls a meeting at Skyhold; her advisors and inner circle. Dorian recounts what he told the Bull when he woke up, and he feels just as sick as the first time he heard it.

“I'd only planned to encroach on the Bull's dreams the once, to help him acclimatise to them. And then I considered that he might be vulnerable, unfamiliar as he is with the Fade or how demons work. My advice would only serve him so far, so I did it again.”

“It's unsafe for you to take that much lyrium that often,” Vivienne says.

Dorian, who looks even more haggard than he did in the Western Approach, doesn't even seem to have the energy to snip at her.

“I know. But it was helping. Your dreams were better, weren't they?”

He hates it – he hates that Dorian has done this to himself to save the Bull from bad dreams.

“Yeah. Just memories, sorta. Nothing demon-y, I don't think.”

Dorian smiles wearily at the Bull.

“I was only keeping watch, really. Whatever demon came to the Bull's dreams, I drew it there. My power, my magic. I distracted it a few times, a few nights as it tried to interact with the Bull. And then it caught me.”

“And now it's more interested in you, I assume?” Solas asks. “That makes sense. You've miniaturised a powerful ritual in order to navigate the Fade as a dreamer might. You've made an easy target of yourself, weakening yourself with night-time lyrium-enhanced Fade jaunts.”

Dorian closes his eyes and takes a breath. Replying seems to take effort. “Yes.”

“You can hear it now, can't you?” Vivienne says. Dorians nods, and the Bull's stomach lurches.

“How?” he demands, then reigns in his anger. He doesn't understand it, how could he?

“He's a mage, my dear. His connection to the Fade is always open, as it were. When mages are weak, or wearied, they're vulnerable.”

“I have to fight it in a prepared arena,” Dorian says. “It's waiting for me to slip. Nobody wants a demon wearing a magister's skin loose in Skyhold.”

“How are you going to fight a demon?” Sera asks; she looks white as a sheet.

“In the Fade.”

“In your sleep, yeah? So why the meeting? Why do I have to know about demon shite when I can't help? Stupid.”

“Because it's powerful, and if I fail and it possesses me, you need to kill me.”

“No way.”

“You have to. Cullen should take point, as an ex-Templar. If he can't take me down, the rest of you'll have to.”

“You're smart,” the Bull says, then to the mages at large, “you're all smart. There isn't another way?”

“We're beyond simply reciting the litany and hoping for the best. It wants me for a vessel, and it's no longer trying to bargain. It knows I’ll lose soon enough, and it'll take my body. There's no other way.”

“Then let's stop wasting time,” Cadash says, decision made and plan in motion.

Cadash takes Dorian away under the guise of forcing him to get a decent meal down him before he makes this attempt. He's clean-shaven when they return, looking a lot more put together than he has since their return to Skyhold.

The mages have prepared the room where Cullen and Cassandra stand sentinel – an empty chamber under the castle, warded with magic with a bed pulled into the middle of the room. Solas and Morrigan look like they're working more magic at opposite sides of the room, and Cole sits crouched in a corner.

“Should he be here?” the Bull asks the room at large. Vivienne gives him a look.

“I've already argued against it, Solas insists he might be some use.”

“And the others?”

“Too many cooks,” she says, twirling a hand. “Sera is the last person who should be here.”

“She can hold her own.”

“Oh, absolutely, but she's very fond of Dorian; watching what could happen to him would be nothing short of cruel. I'm not entirely convinced _you_ should be here.”

“It's my fault this happened. I have to be here, Ma'am.”

“Are we ready?” Cadash asks. The mages call the affirmative, and Dorian settles on the bed.

“Did anyone fetch my lotion for my sleep routine?” Dorian asks, to smiles but no laughter. He lies back and stares at the ceiling as the rest of them take up places around the room.

“Bull,” he says, without looking at anyone. He pats the bed beside him.

Ignoring the looks from the others, the Bull approaches and sits carefully on the edge of the bed. Dorian smiles weakly at him.

“Hey.”

“Hey yourself.”

“I'm going to fight,” he says quietly – the room can hear it, but this close he can kid himself that it's just them. “But if I lose, you have to kill me.”

“Kinky,” he says. He kind of wants to be sick.

“I'm serious. It doesn't have to be your hand, but if it comes to that, it has to be done. If I'm not me, I don't want my body used.”

“You can fight this. I've seen you take out demons before. First time I ever met you, you were beating the crap out of demons.”

“The field is a little different this time. I will try, though. Did you—” Dorian hesitates, swallows. “Kaffas. Did you not want to see me after the incident? Because I wanted to see you. But if I'm going to make things worse for you...”

His hand brushes the Bull's then, over his scabbed knuckles. The Bull’s tongue feels thick in his mouth.

“I didn't want to hurt you again.”

“I'd like you to promise me two things,” Dorian says. He reaches up, fingertips against the Bull's jaw. The Bull leans in so Dorian can cup his face. “If I make it, you’ll kiss me, and we’ll go from there. If I don't, you'll kill me.”

“Dorian...”

“This is my body and no demon is going to use it as a playground. Promise me, please.”

“Okay. I promise.”

“Good,” Dorian says as he lies back, closes his eyes. “Sit with me while I nod off, won't you?”

“Sure.”

It doesn't take much longer for Dorian to fall asleep. The Bull watches him until his breathing changes, and keeps watching him after that. He's expecting something to happen, anything, but Dorian just sleeps and they just wait, the mages occasionally checking the magic they've put up in the room. Every time Dorian snuffles in his sleep there's a ripple of alertness around the room, but it comes to nothing.

“I thought facing a demon would be more exciting,” Cadash says quietly.

Solas shifts against his staff. “Time passes differently in the Fade. I've dreamed a year passing in a few hours of sleep, and a single moment that takes a whole night to dream.”

The candles have burnt down a few notches, and a few hours have passed before anything happens; Dorian begins to move, and then he doesn't stop. He thrashes, panting, mumbling nonsense.

“Be ready,” Cassandra says. The Bull has to resist the urge to shake Dorian awake, and can only sit there beside him on the bed and watch him thrash, watch him arch, watch his bad hand twitch and his good hand claw at the sheets.

He doesn't want to, but he can't help picturing Dorian bursting open and a demon pouring out of the husk of him.

He doesn't bust out in demons, though – Dorian sits bolt upright, breathe catching as if he'd expected to be breathless. Everyone is waiting, poised for action.

“Dorian?”

Dorian takes a few breaths. “Bull.”

“Hey.” Overwhelmed suddenly with relief, the Bull reaches for him, cradles his cheek in a hand and turns his face up. “How you feeling?”

Dorian sighs, reaches up and covers the Bull's hand with his own. It slips to his wrist, circling—

“So good.”

His hand tightens around the Bull's wrist, twisting it until the Bull yells in pain, twists the Bull down onto his knees with his arm bent behind his back with inhuman strength.

“A little payback, for what you did to me, hmm? For what you did to this body.”

Cassandra yells, he can see Cadash looking stricken with daggers drawn, energy lighting up the mage's staffs.

“ _Take him down!”_

“ _Don't hit the Bull!”_

“I made a good choice, I think,” the demon murmurs in the Bull's ear in Dorian's voice. “This body is so strong, he's still fighting me.”

“ _Get an angle!”_

“Wouldn't you like this body again? You could do whatever you wanted to it. I can take it, I'm stronger than him. He'll be gone soon.”

Dorian yells in pain as Solas and Vivienne both hit him with a combination of spells; he releases the Bull, who scrambles away.

There's no hope now – what else can he do. He promised he'd let him be killed if he was possessed. He made a promise to his kadan that he wouldn't let this go on.

“Hold him still,” Cullen says, stepping forward with his sword drawn. The demon inside Dorian struggles against whatever bonds are holding him still, like an invisible cage.

He has always been so good at lying.

“No!” The Bull steps between the demon and Cullen, stance ready to strike the killing blow, to take Dorian's head off.

“I have to do this, Bull. It's not Dorian any more, he's gone.”

“He's fighting. He hasn't let go yet.”

“Iron Bull, step aside. He doesn't want to live as a vessel for a demon and you know it.”

He does know it, he knows he should let this happen, but—

“Cullen, _please_. There has to be something we can try.”

“We can bind him,” Solas says, looking like he's already doing it. “If Dorian's still fighting the demon's possession, there may be a way. Hold him still, Vivienne!”

“I'm trying!”

Cullen looks ready to take the swing, a haunted determination in his eyes. Cassandra grabs his shoulder and pulls him away, hissing something he doesn't hear over Cadash's shout and the thrum of the mage's magic as they try and bind Dorian.

“Cullen, stop! Keep him alive!”

Morrigan joins the efforts, and Dorian goes from struggling against an invisible cage to slumped over, barely conscious.

“Don't touch him,” Vivienne warns, even though the Bull hasn't moved yet. “We can contain him for now.”

“There's something else we can try, right?” Cadash asks the room at large. If there's not, the Bull knows they're just delaying the inevitable.

*

Morrigan sends for Leliana, which is weird – Leliana isn't summoned, her presence is always requested. But shit, there was something there once. It'd be fun to consider, if he wasn't already preoccupied with Dorian.

“You've all heard of the Urn of Sacred ashes, and references to the role it played in the Warden saving Arl Eamon,” Leliana says, after they've briefed her. “Her efforts to save his son from possession are less well documented.”

The Inquisitor looks between Leliana and Morrigan. “You've done this before, then?”

“It's not without great risk,” Morrigan says.

“But it is possible.”

“Certainly. But when the Warden did it, it was a demon possessing a mere child, not a mage as skilled as Dorian. He's stronger, so he's fighting, but it also means we're dealing with a demon that's strong enough to have possessed him in the first place.”

“And whoever takes the task will have to be strong enough to face it,” Vivienne says.

“I will,” the Bull says.

There seems to be a ripple of surprise, and a few faces that don't look surprised at all.

“You're not a mage, dear.”

“So it can't be me?”

Vivienne looks at Morrigan, who seems to be considering.

“Surely not.”

“He's connected to the Fade like any other mortal, excluding dwarves. He's able to access it in dreams, so in theory he'd be able to be the focus of the ritual.”

“Non-mages can't traverse the raw Fade,” Solas says.

“I believe several of them did at Adamant.”

“That was a physical entrance to the Fade. This wouldn't be physical, it would be a dream state, but induced. The Bull may dream, but he'll have to navigate between spaces which will be near impossible for a non-mage.”

“Solas has a point,” Leliana says. “The Warden is a mage, she said that when she met Arl Eamon’s son in the Fade he was confused and unable to find his way.”

“I won't ask anyone who isn't willing to do this,” Cadash says, “I'm connected to the Fade now too, I'll do it.”

“You cannot do that, Inquisitor,” Solas says.

“I respect Dorian greatly,” Vivienne says, “and I consider him my friend, but to risk you, Inquisitor, more than any of us to save him would be foolish. He wouldn't want it.”

“It has to be me,” the Bull says. “It's my fault he's possessed. He tried to protect me, and whatever's got him wanted me. If you lose me the Chargers will honour their contract. Krem'll do great. You'll be out a bodyguard, but you've got all these others to watch your back.”

“I'm not concerned about losing a bodyguard,” Cadash says shortly, “I don't want to lose another friend.”

“I choose this. I'm choosing to do this, Boss.”

She looks at him for a moment, then sighs, resigned.

“Alright. We have the mages for the ritual, and enough contacts that we can renew the lyrium stores, if everyone's willing to do their part. We have to make this work if we want any chance of freeing Dorian.”

“We're each powerful,” Morrigan says, “we may be able to offer some assistance more than the circles mages the Warden used did. Clear the way, perhaps, make it easier to navigate.”

“It wanted me, maybe if it knows I'm there, it'll let me find it.”

“It'll be a trap,” Solas warns.

“No shit.”

*

He doesn't pay much attention to the ritual. He doesn't understand it, and doesn't need to beyond how he's involved. They're bolstering his dreams so he has more power, more like Dorian was giving himself or Solas has got anyway. It lets them choose where to set him down, once Cole and Solas have pinpointed the area of the Fade the demon is keeping Dorian.

He drinks lyrium, and he's asleep under the ritual before the metallic burning taste is gone from his mouth.

It's like any other dream, in that he wakes up and he's there, with no memory of getting there. Except he knew the next place he'd be is the Fade, so being surrounded on all sides by fog isn't as disorientating as it could be. It sets his teeth on edge anyway, the swirling fog that makes him think of jungle heat and the taste of blood in the air.

Nothing else for it – if the demon doesn't know he's here already, it will soon.

“Dorian!” he calls.

Immediately the fog begins to shift and clear, until he can make out a room – a vast room, an entrance hall of some kind, with a few doors leading into other rooms. Tevinter, quite clearly, with all the severe obsidian and gold. The walls are lined with empty portraits, and there's a grand staircase that diverges left and right to upper landings. The curtains are all drawn, the only light from snake-shaped wall sconces.

“Dorian?”

His voice echoes in the room, bounces off the tile. Nothing else to hear, only an unnatural stillness; no sounds of chatter from other rooms, no birds from outside, not even the buzz of a stray insect.

He chooses the closest door, to the left of the room. He's half expecting another Tevinter room, maybe a sitting room or study, half expecting some weird Fade realm; he's not really expecting to see his own room in Skyhold – the bed, the fireplace, his axe and Dorian's staff against the wall just how it usually is. _Was_. He's not expecting to see himself asleep, with Dorian curled against his side, arm flung across his chest.

“Dorian?” he says. Neither of the figures stir. He steps into the room proper, knows there's an inevitability about it anyway.

He – this figure of himself, whatever is taking his shape – groans and shuffles in sleep. This Dorian barely rouses, stretching below the covers. This Iron Bull groans in his sleep and moves again, sitting up. His eyes are open. He looks awake. Dorian, still groggy with sleep, strokes a hand soothingly across the Bull's chest.

“Bull, you alright?”

He realises what he's seeing with sudden clarity and horror, just as the mirror of him grabs Dorian's wrist and squeezes.

“Ow, Bull—”

He doesn't let go. He squeezes again – the Bull can see the muscles of his own arm flexing as he does. He hears Dorian's fingers crack, sees his huge hand break them as Dorian yells with pain.

“Bull! _Stop_!”

He doesn't stop – he twists Dorian's wrist and arm until he hears it break, as Dorian wails with pain, whole body forced to follow the motion, like a ragdoll and not a flesh and blood man.

“Stop, _stop_!” Dorian wails. “Bull, _please_ , stop!”

It feels like an age until Dorian manages to pry his broken wrist from the Bull's grasp and hurries away from him, across the bed. He holds back a shuddering moan as he cradles his arm to his chest.

“Hey,” the Bull says, as the real him watches from across the room, frozen in place, “did I wake you?”

“I think—”

The Bull clambers out of bed – he knows he can't see well in the darkness as he lights a candle, but the Bull, the real Bull who stands and watches,sees the scene playing out as clearly as if it were daylight in the room.

“What's wrong with you?” he says, annoyed, like he never did.

“I should see a healer.”

The false Bull reaches out and grabs Dorian's broken wrist, pulling him up by it. Dorian screams in pain, fumbling naked to find his feet.

“This is your fault. If you'd stayed out of my dreams then I wouldn't have to do this.”

He twists Dorian's wrist until he's sobbing.

“I'm sorry, Bull, I'm sorry! I'm _sorry_.”

Something within the space snaps, like a thread pulled to breaking, and the Bull finds himself. He takes his axe off the wall, and it's as solid as the one in the waking world; he swings it at himself, right at his back.

It connects with the mortal glut of metal through flesh, but instead of blood it's black ichor that splatters over the floor. His body falls heavily, and dissolves right before his eyes.

Dorian, from the floor where he fell when his wrist was released, sniffs and wipes at his nose with the back of his good wrist.

“Cruelty now?”

“What?” the Bull says dumbly.

“Just get on and beat me, won't you? You think this cruelty will break me any quicker than you having him beat me unconscious?”

“Dorian, I'm here to get you back.”

Dorian laughs.

“The bit needs work. You've proved yourself creative so far, this is rather pathetic.”

“I'm not a demon, Dorian, I'm here.”

“I told him to kill me. This will be over soon.”

Dorian's gone in a blink, and the room slowly begins to fill with fog. The Bull backs up to the door, back into the Tevinter foyer.

There's a figure standing at the first landing, a shapeless form that's watching him. As he crosses the floor to stand at the bottom of the stairs the form solidifies; a woman with Dorian's colouring, Dorian's nose, his grey eyes, black hair ironed straight.

“My,” she— _it_ says, “this is certainly unanticipated. How exciting!”

“Are you the demon that’s possessing Dorian?”

“I had a name, but I’m quite getting used to ‘Dorian’.”

“You’re a woman.”

“Mortal concepts of gender are limited,” it says as its body shrinks, pales, huge breasts heaving against a bodice, its hair retreating to be short and red, the picture of a Skyhold barmaid. “I am desire.”

He realises then that the axe he wielded in the room is gone, dissipated in the fog. It’s the demon’s realm, though – he’s not going to be able to fight it with a staircase between them.

“Dorian will give in to me soon. He’s strong, so strong - that’s why I wanted him.”

“You wanted me.”

“I considered you. You were inexperienced, and there’s something to be said for inexperience. You’d have been fun. Dorian, I think, is a better fit for me.”

“He won’t stop fighting you.”

“He will. And I will make him suffer every moment of his existence until he does.”

Desire, it said - _desire_. Something sets the Bull’s teeth on edge.

“Unless, of course, you agree to leave, let me leave Skyhold unharmed, and I will end him swiftly.”

The Bull laughs. He might have promised to kill Dorian and defied his wishes, but he knows what is dumb hope and what is giving up.

“No.”

“Do you think he’d not forgive you if you let me have him? Tell me, would he forgive you for breaking your word to kill him? To let me play with him all this time? Why don’t I show you how much fun he’s been having here.”

It disappears, as a door on the other side of the atrium swings open.

Inside is a different bedroom – Tevinter again, but full of light from the tall windows and the smell of summer blooms, curtains fluttering in a breeze. Clothes litter the floor, two pairs of boots.

On the bed is Dorian - younger, face smooth, hair messy. Naked, panting, freshly fucked. A familiar sight.

“You’ve gotten rather good at that,” Dorian says.

“We have been practising,” says another man, who sits on the edge of the bed as he brushes his long brown hair with his fingers, pulling it into a tie at the back of his neck.

Dorian looks at the man’s back – there’s affection there, and something unguarded that he’s never seen before – something that disappears as soon as the man leans back to look at him.

“Suppose you’re going to kick me out now.” Dorian says.

“You know you can’t stay.”

Dorian lifts his brows. “I’m beginning to think it’s more a case that you don’t want me to stay.”

“Don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“You’re being difficult. You know I can’t stand when you’re difficult.”

Dorian huffs and flops back down amongst the sheets.

“I don’t see what’s so difficult about wanting to rest a while after we’ve fucked.”

“We can’t do what lovers do. It’s unwise. Foolish.”

“Why not? _Aren’t_ we lovers, Rilienus? Is it too much to ask for a few stolen hours in each other’s company?”

“And then what? We make it so hard to leave that we don’t, and word spreads, your parents find out, _my_ parents find out, my betrothed finds out, and we come to ruin.”

“I’m not asking you to risk your life for me,” Dorian says weakly.

“Every time you come here you risk my life! For what, Dorian? The sooner you stop pretending you won't have to do what the rest of us do, the better. You’ll marry Livia, you’ll put children in her, and you’ll fuck around with your favourite house slave while she pretends not to notice.”

Dorian gets up noisily, feet slapping loudly on the tile as he pulls his clothes on. His anger burns so hot the Bull thinks he can feel it. His sadness, too.

“If that’s all you envision for your life, then I pity you.”

“I don’t need your pity. You’ll burn out chasing a life you’ll never live, and I’ll be... content.”

“I don’t want to be content, I want to be _happy_!”

Dorian storms from the room through another door. The room swirls with fog, quicker than the last, and the scene begins again - Dorian naked on the bed, Rilienus at the washbasin.

How many times has Dorian had to relive this memory now? How many times has Dorian had to be told over and over that what he wants is impossible?

He waits until Dorian goes to storm out again, and crosses the room to intercept him. He grabs him by the shoulder, and suddenly Dorian notices him. The way Dorian sizes him up would make the Bull laugh if the context wasn't so fucked up.

“Who are you?”

“Erm, you don't know me yet. But you're gonna get what you want. You're gonna be happy. Everyone's gonna know it, and it's gonna be okay.”

“I—Bull?”

The room begins to fade back to fog.

“I – wait, you can't be here. It's not possible.”

“I'm coming to get you.”

The swirling fog takes Dorian with it, the solidity of his shoulder dissolving from under his hand. The scene begins again, and the Bull leaves by the door he came in before he has to watch it again.

The hallway is empty when he steps into it and closes the door. He leans on it for a moment and takes a long, slow breath in through his nose. He knew they didn't have a lot of time, and these visions feel like time wasted when the Bull should be trying to work out how to defeat the demon.

Up the stairs and to the left is the next door the Bull decides to try, and the scene within sets every bare nerve in the Bull’s brain off.

It’s a grand study, dark wood and obsidian, the walls lined with hundreds of beautifully bound books, cases of scrolls and tomes. The space smells heavily of burning sage, the incense fog wafting from a censor on the large desk.

He recognises Dorian’s dad because he looks so much like him – older, leaner, even more angular than Dorian is. Shorter than Dorian by a head.

There’s magic shit – a series of glyphs painted onto the floor in black paint, barely dry; Halward pushes a huge circular rug back into place over them, hiding them. He's waiting for something, watching the door.

Waiting for Dorian. He enters the room looking tired, hair freshly cut, freshly washed and shaved smooth.

“That’s better,” Halward says. “You’ve been in such a state while you’ve been home.”

“While I’ve been kept a prisoner, you mean?”

“It is for your own good.”

“I’m a grown man, you have no say over what is good for me.”

“You are still my son, whatever shame you bring to this house, and to yourself. Please son,” Halward says, approaching Dorian. They’re standing in the centre of the rug. “I only want what’s best.”

“You want what’s easiest. You want what won't embarrass you.”

“I want you to be _happy_ , Dorian,” Halward says, taking his son’s hand between his. “Please, agree to the marriage. Livia is a fine woman. She has been made aware of the circumstances, and is unfazed by the idea that you’ll make use of the slaves when she can’t meet your... tastes. So long as you produce a Pavus heir, everything will be alright.”

“No father, it won’t,” Dorian says, sadly, wearily, his hand so softly left between his father's, trembling. “You’ve never understood that I don’t want to live that way, have you? I don’t want to marry a woman and fuck slaves because I’m unhappy, I don’t want a life of hiding!”

He sighs. His father seems to soften, watching Dorian as he talks, as he pours his fucking heart out.

“All I've ever wanted, is to be allowed to be all I am. I tried so hard, I thought if I was everything else you wanted; a powerful mage, an accomplished scholar, every inch a Magister's son, that you'd let the rest go. That you'd love me anyway. I'm not a man who marries a woman and pretends to love her, or even to be interested in the concept of her in general. I don’t want to live a lie.”

Halward nods slowly, still the picture of sympathy.

“So be it,” he says, as he holds onto Dorian’s hand with one of his and draws a dagger from his robes with the other. Before Dorian can pull away he’s cut Dorian’s arm. “I will make sure you don’t have to lie.”

“Father, what are you doing?”

Halward retreats away from the rug, snatching up his staff and mumbling words. Dorian can't seem to move, immobilised by magic and anguish.

“Father! How could you?!”

He knows it’s not real and still the Bull finds his feet and rushes forward, but at the edge of the hidden circle of glyphs he’s repelled by an invisible barrier. Barging it with his shoulder does nothing, even as he tries and tries. Inside the circle, Dorian is _screaming_. It sounds like he's underwater, as he clutches at his head in pain, gone to his knees.

It’s over as quickly as it came on – the resistance is no longer there, and the Bull is able to reach Dorian.

“Are you okay?”

Dorian looks woozy, and the Bull helps him shakily to his feet. Halward is right there, and barely acknowledges the Bull until he’s grabbing his arm and steering him around.

“Here, Dorian. What do you think? Would you like for him to fuck you? Would you like to see his cock?”

“I—father, what have you done to me?”

“Fixed you. My son, you’re free of that unfortunate desire now.”

“Dorian, don’t listen to him,” the Bull says. “This isn’t real, and I don’t think this even happened. It’s the demon fucking with you.”

“What has he done to me? I don’t feel – oh, I don’t want this. This isn’t me.”

“Dorian, it’s not real. I’m coming to get you. I’m coming to get you back.”

Halward leers at him, face twisted beyond human, as the scene disappears into fog like the others did.

In the entrance hall, the demon has returned, standing at the foot of the stairs now. It looks like his Tama.

“What do you want? Why do you want him?”

“It doesn't matter if I want him. He should be free.”

“Liar. You think what he wants is what you want? I know the darkest parts of his heart. I know his fears, his hopes, his lusts. I see what he'd make of you. Perhaps you should see what you're fighting for.”

The door opposite leads into the countryside. The hills look vaguely Ferelden, and a cottage stands before him. It's old but solidly built, with a fenced in garden. He goes through the gate and slowly treads the path towards the house, past rows of carrots and cabbages. There's a freshly dug patch and a wheelbarrow full of soil next to it. Roses grow around the cottage's doorway.

An older man comes striding over to him - his hair is streaked with white and his face lined with wrinkles, but still unmistakably Dorian. His neck is a bit flabby and his belly is paunch, and he’s wearing half-moon spectacles on the end of his nose.

“What are you doing on your feet? Honestly, I can’t take you anywhere.”

Dorian leads him – it’s suddenly very difficult and painful to walk – over to a chair on the porch. He can feel his bones creaking as he sits down heavily.

“That’s it, you great lummox. The healer said you’re not to stay on your feet. Save your energy, I’m sure you’ll ignore the healer’s orders when Krem comes by next week.”

“Krem?”

“Yes dear, he wrote to you, remember? Oh, you don’t remember, that’s alright. He’s coming to see you, to tell you how the Chargers are getting on. Honestly, it’s sweet that you care how they’re doing after all this time.”

He can't remember.

“How long’s it been?”

Dorian looks at him with practised patience.

“It’ll be twenty years come winter.”

“Why’d I leave?”

“You retired, Bull. I know you like to pretend you didn’t sometimes, but you’ve got to take it a bit more easy now.”

Twenty years. Twenty years retired – he never even thought he'd live that long. Hadn't planned on it – there was nothing to gain or offer in growing increasingly crippled and useless, memory shot to shit. A taste of it feels fucking awful, but to live it—

Another thing, though:

“And we’ve been together all this time?”

Dorian looks stricken for a moment, before it passes.

“You’re not forgetting me now, are you?” It doesn’t feel like much of a joke. “Of course we’ve been together all that time.”

“Long time.”

“Too long, if you ask me,” Dorian says, the joke landing a little better. “I ought to trade you in for a younger lover.”

“And it's just been you? I've not been with anyone else?”

“I'm enough of a handful. Two handfuls, on a good day.”

Only Dorian - for the rest of his life. It’s not what Qunari do.

Dorian perches himself on the Bull's lap and leans in to kiss him. His hands, where they rest against his chest are liver spotted and papery.

“Come on, old man. You can help me shell the peas.”

The scene swirls into fog slowly, Dorian one of the last things to go – right before the chair disappears, and the Bull has to catch himself before he falls on his ass, suddenly feeling his age again.

Back in the hallway he leaves the room and sits at the top of the stairs. He puts his head in his hand and presses his palm against his good eye.

“I told you,” says the demon, wearing's Cullen's face, where it's materialised to sit beside him. “This isn't what you want, is it? It's not the life you've envisioned for yourself. You can't fight me, and what would you be condemning yourself to if you won him back? It's time to let go.”

The demon knows Dorian's desires, but it doesn't mean it understands them. The demon – how much can it tell of him? It's reading him, or guessing.

“There's only one more door,” the Bull says.

“What?”

“Figure Dorian's got to be behind there, and you're getting desperate because I'm close.”

The demon yells and disappears in a swirl of purple smoke, leaving him sitting on the stairs and gazing down at the last door.

He's expecting an arena, or a jail, or maybe even a maze – it seems like the demons wants to distract him, because the longer it takes him to find Dorian, the more likely Dorian's will will fail him. So to be met with a room full of swirling fog makes him swear.

“Dorian!” he calls. The air is close around him, his shout hardly carrying at all.

_So it comes to this._

The Bull spins around, but the voice is coming from all over, a handful of voices speaking as one.

_You want him so desperately, then I may be able to give you what you desire after all._

He presses forward through the fog, not knowing where it leads.

_We had thought to find a vessel later, but no matter. Lover, my lover, come take your place._

He feels it before anything else – the burning heat of it, before the Bull gets a fist full of fire across his arm. He yells and stumbles as the demon lurches into view, pure rage and hate. The skin of his arm is red raw and bubbling – he fucking hates burns.

He parries it, trying not to let it get too close. He has no weapon, and he can't fight fire with his bare hands.

_If you want to save him so much then we will make sure you're together forever!_

It lurches at him, shooting fire at his face – a faceful of flame that leaves him blind and deaf and dropping to his knees from the pain as his skin blisters.

 _It's not real, of course,_ Dorian said. _You can come to no actual harm no matter what happens to your body._

This is just a dream, and this isn't real fire. This isn't real pain, and his skin isn't blistering and peeling away from his skull. He centres it in his mind, he believes it, trusts it – and opens his eye; he's fine.

_Rage will take your body, and I will take Dorian's, and we will be together!_

The demon screeches and roils, red hot magma for a body.

He can't fight it with his bare hands, except it's not real, and his hands aren't real, and if it can't kill him then he can try anything. When it goes for him again, he meets it – grabs for purchase where it's neck might be and feels his hands blistering.

_Your bodies will rip and maim and rape and ruin, your bodies will crush and burn!_

It's not real pain, but it's still fucking agony. It's liquid magma through and through, but it screams when he tries to choke it, so he keeps going. He uses pain like a weapon in any battle, and here he does the same thing; lets it feed him, lets it strengthen him, and the more it hurts, the more his skin continues to blister, even though it should have melted away from his bones by now.

_Take him! Take him! You are rage!_

He wrestles the demon to the floor, and pounds his fists where its face might be, if the gaping hole it's screaming out of is its mouth. There's a moment, like when they've fought demons at a rift, where the air goes still and then shudders, and the demon flakes to pieces and drifts apart.

The desire demon screams, and then he's not lost in fog, but knelt on the ground of the strangest place he's ever seen. Immediately he knows it's the Fade, but it's horrible – full of strange shapes and sounds, colours and smells that make no sense to any real landscape.

“Dorian!” He calls.

There seems to be a path, and he follows it, trying to concentrate on the road ahead instead of the weird sounds that follow him, the rotten smell that clings to him.

“Dorian? Are you here?”

He finds him sitting in a ghost of his Skyhold library alcove, seems to stun him out of quiet contemplation.

“What do you want?”

“Nice to see you too,” he says thickly. It has to be Dorian – it has to be the real him. The demon wouldn't have tried to keep him away so hard if it wasn't.

“I'm tired of these phantoms.”

“Not a phantom. I'm here to help.”

“I told the Bull to kill me.”

“Yeah, we almost did. But I knew you were still there.”

“So you came to get me? Just happened across this demon's realm?”

“There's a ritual, I don't really know what they did. They got me here so I could kill the demon. Why would the demon spin you this story? It's not going to make you give up any faster, if you thought someone was coming to get you out.”

“It was really you?” Dorian asks. “You saw all those memories, those scenes?”

“Yeah.”

“I thought the demon was fucking with me. Trying new things to get me to give up.”

“You didn't. Even when it took over, you held out.”

“Stubborn, I suppose.”

“Yeah, me too. I already killed one demon. One down, one to go.”

Dorian gets up and moves closer to the Bull, looking surprised.

“You defeated the rage demon? How?”

“Dream shit. You taught me well.”

Maybe Dorian’s wondering what he has to lose if he believes it’s really him. Maybe he wants to believe it.

“Alright, but the other won't fall as easily. I think it's trying to make me want to give up – once that's my desire, its own nature, it can take over.”

“Then don't give up. ”

The demon appears; naked and purple, horns curling and dripping in gold. The Fade swirls and twists around them, until they're in a wide clearing and the demon looks down on them. The Bull knows it for what it is: it's an arena.

“ _What will you be without me? You'll never be free! Every day you'll know that you fell, and another demon will come along and take you for a vessel.”_

The sound Dorian makes – a soft exhale, like the realisation is shocked out of him – it makes the Bull's mind fly into panic. He can't lose him. He can't lose Dorian to this.

“Then I'll just have to come back and get him again!” The Bull shouts.

The demon snarls, an ear-splitting sound that makes his teeth ache, and then it comes at them. Dorian is fast, throwing up fire in its way before it can reach the Bull, who is unarmed. But he defeated one demon with his bare hands, so he's at least going to try to take this one out.

It's not like any fight he's ever taken part in, not even one with demons spilling from a rift; the way the ground shifts under them, the whole arena changing, no place he puts his feet what he expected. Dorian looks like he's having an easier time, but his magic is different – no prepared spells, no controlled casting, just a wild swirl of fire and lightning.

The demon has its own magic; projectiles that hiss and spit like acid, jagged lightning and a creeping, ominous fog that the Bull doesn't want near him. It hits Dorian in the legs with lightning that takes him down hard, but before the Bull can reach him the demon's on him, claws digging into his shoulders as it tries to wrench him apart.

“You'll live with your regret, and you'll die by it!” It hisses. “What a waste, _a waste!_ ”

It feels solid enough, flesh and blood and bone enough, so he grabs it, just hits it over and over, lays into its flesh as it screeches and tries to tear at him with its claws.

It disappears from his grasp, dissolving out of his grip and then reappears a few feet away – or rather, _Krem_ appears, leaning on the haft of his great maul.

“You trust him, Chief? After this, what if it happens again? Do you trust him around your men?”

The Bull feels the rage drive him forward and he swipes at the demon; not for what it's said about Dorian, but that it thinks it can use his friend's face to try and make him give up. It dodges, but leaves the maul when it becomes a demonic form that's only half Krem, and dances out of his range. The Bull grabs the haft of the maul and when the creature snarls and the weapon doesn't disintegrate in his hands, he feels the thrill of the advantage through him.

He realises then that Dorian is fighting across the arena, swarmed by a group of terror demons. He hefts the maul above his head and runs at them, takes a huge swing at the closest one and obliterates it in one swing, knocking its head clean off it's body.

“Where did you get a weapon?” Dorian asks as the tide of the fight turns to them, as they face the other spindly terrors looming above them and slashing at them with their claws.

“It's pretending to be Krem.”

“His maul!” Dorian laughs. “It's miscalculating. It's losing.”

“Can you feel it? Can you feel it losing its hold?”

Dorian burns the last terror, but doesn't get to answer; his father is standing beside him, looking crestfallen.

“Dorian—”

“Oh, absolutely not,” he grunts, and punches his father in the face. The demon reels back, bares sharp teeth and lunges for them. Dorian wreaths it in a column of fire and the Bull swings for it, landing several blows.

He's bleeding from his face, but Dorian's shoulder is gashed down to the bone. They're in the Fade, so the Bull knows his own injuries can't kill really, as long as they don't wake him from his dream-state, but Dorian – it's inside him, can it hurt him?

“ _I am desire!”_ It screams, throwing magic at them as they battle the minor demons that crawl out of the earth as they advance towards it. “ _I am your heart, your want, I am every selfish thought and every terrible whim, I offered you paradise, and you corrupt it, you twist my will, you twist the nature of yourself! For what? FOR WHAT?”_

 _For Dorian_ , the Bull thinks – knows, at the very heart of him.

They reach the demon and the Bull swings for it as Dorian hits it with lightning. Its skin blisters and burns, the gold bangles melt from its arms, its horns chip and flake, it crumbles under the Bull's blows and Dorian's magic, until with a great screech and a flash of Fade-green light—

The Bull jerks awake.

“No!” he gasps. Solas and Vivienne rush forward. “No, we almost killed it! No!”

“What happened, Iron Bull?”

The Bull doesn't have time for this – he has to know. He gets shakily off the floor and stumbles to the door – the Inquisitor lets him pass.

If they came so far and failed, if he walks into that room and finds that demon leering at him in Dorian's skin—

The door's unlocked, and on the other side Cullen is sheathing his sword. For an awful second the Bull thinks what he'll see instead is Dorian with his head hacked off, the demon dealt with.

Instead Dorian is standing talking quietly to Morrigan. He turns at the door opening, and his face breaks in a relieved smile at the sight of him. The Bull crosses the room in a few strides, Dorian meets him halfway and throws his arms around his neck.

The Bull hugs him as tightly as he dares, and gets no protest.

When they kiss it's clumsy, a smash of mouths and shuddering breath, teeth clacking when they try to deepen it briefly. He's never going to forget it. He's never going to forget holding Dorian in his arms, alive, real, just Dorian.

“You really did come for me,” Dorian says. “You absolute fool.”

“That's me.”

His eye's a bit damp, and if Dorian's face softens at it, he doesn't mention noticing. He kisses him more softly, gently, and the Bull thinks he'll remember that one too.

“I told you if I was possessed you should kill me. I recall you promising.”

“I told you what Hissrad meant, right?”

Dorian laughs, and kisses him again.

“Kept one promise, at least.”

*

Cassandra hasn't got any flowers in her hair as she strikes her dull blade against the training dummy. He watches her with a weird feeling of recollection in his gut, which takes a while for him to place; the memories of his old dreams are fuzzy now, and he's barely able to recall them.

It's normal, for a non-mage not to remember. Expected even, now that he's no longer dreaming.

Cassandra lowers her sword, catching sight of him. She smiles.

“Have you raided Lady Josephine’s flower delivery?”

He’s holding a bouquet of her spares, bundled together with a ribbon she insisted on; white zinnias, roses, borage. Flowers have lots of special meanings in the South, but roses seem a good choice. Hopefully that holds true in Tevinter, too.

“How many flowers does one woman need?”

Cassandra smiles knowingly at him.

“I believe he’s in the Rest.”

“Thanks.”

Dorian is in the Herald’s Rest, nursing a pint and looking much more like himself again. The bruising on his wrist is almost faded.

“What are those?” He asks, making a face at the flowers when the Bull comes over to his table.

“They’re for you.”

“I have allergies, you know,” Dorian sniffs. His face has gone a bit red.

“To grasses.”

He takes the flowers, dips his fingers amongst the blooms to inspect them. The Bull watches the smile on his face, as if he can’t help it.

“I’ve never been given flowers before.”

“A real shame, kadan.”

Sometimes he thinks about the flowers that were planted around the garden he saw in the Fade, the roses around the door of the cottage. Wonders in that possibility, that demon-conjured maybe, if he’d planted them for Dorian.

“I suppose I ought to find a vase for these, and find a place for them in my room.”

“You want a second opinion?” The Bull asks, as Dorian gets to his feet.

“I’m not taking decorating advice from someone wearing those trousers, thank you. You can spectate.”

Dorian dips his face to smell the flowers as they wind their way out of the tavern together.

**“We are such stuff as dreams are made on, and our little life is rounded with a sleep.” ― William Shakespeare**


End file.
